" I came upon an oak when I was twelve
I had climbed up and screamed for Skip to get me down.
It was a thousand miles to earth. I shut my eyes and yelled.
My brother, richly compelled to mirth, gave shouts of laughter
And scaled up to rescue me.
"What were you doing there?" he said.
I did not tell. Rather drop me dead.
But I was there to place a note within a squirrel nest
On which I’d written some old secret thing now long forgot.
Now in the green ravine of middle years I stood
Beneath that tree. Why, why, I thought, my God,
It’s not so high. Why did I shriek?
It can’t be more than fifteen feet above. I’ll climb it handily.
And did.
And squatted like an aging ape alone and thanking God
That no one saw this ancient man at antics
Clutched grotesquely to the bole.
But then, ah God, what awe.
The squirrel’s hole and long-lost nest were there.
I lay upon the limb a long while, thinking.
I drank in all the leaves and clouds and weathers
Going by as mindless
As the days.
I put my hand into the nest. I dug my fingers deep.
The note.
Like mothwings neatly powdered on themselves, and folded close
It had survived. No rains had touched, no sunlight bleached
Its stuff. It lay upon my palm.
What, what, oh, what had I put there in words
So many years ago?
I opened it. For now I had to know.
I opened it, and wept. I clung then to the tree
And let the tears flow out and down my chin.
Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?
I remember you.
I remember you..."
I always admired Bradbury´s writings: themes, approach, philosophy, poetry, sensibility... and specially his very personal "romantic" views about childhood´s end, coming of age, nostalgia, loneliness and isolation.
Having a deeper view on his private correspondence has been a satiafactory experience for me. Not only for the sake of knowing the man behind the pen, but also because i discovered that there was NO DIFFERENCE between "Ray the creator" and "Ray the person". (not a surpriese, BTW)
Ray was truly a man of principles and coherence, a poet, a humanist, a romantic hero "out of time", and above all, a man who tried to live his life at fullest through literature, love, art on all his forms, nature, and deep human connections. A man larger than life who gifted us with his talent and wisedom.
To dig deeper: If you analyse his early letters with editors, agents and other writers, you can taste the SAME sense of respect and humbleness that it is also present in his late letters. Fame and fortune didn´t make any difference. He behaved the same way as a struggling aspirant writer and as a sci-fi star. That´s the path.
Ray was a coherent man who put all his heart and soul on his tales and novels. And I am grateful for it.